


Rain Has a Rhythm

by florastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florastiel/pseuds/florastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little drabble about rainy days in the bunker between Dean and Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain Has a Rhythm

Cas rolls himself up in the brown duvet as the sky darkens with the clouds, light shifting in the favor of sleep, but with twelve hours of rest under his belt and those five cups of coffee from yesterday still wearing through his system, sleeping is almost impossible. 

Still he relaxes into the mattress, poking his chin out of the blankets and into the cool air of the bunker. He inhales, long and deep, breathing in the scent on the heavy duvet around him. It smells like Dean, like cheap soap and a fire fueled by autumn leaves; it smells slightly musky, and there's a scent all it's own. Dean. There's no adjective in the English language, he thinks, that can quite do this scent justice, just Dean. 

In the next hour or so - or what feels like the next hour - it starts raining. Castiel can hear the drops on the ground, wetting the earth that lies beneath. As an angel, Cas never favored rain; sure it was necessary and even life-bringing, but it clouded heaven in a complete different way from how it clouded earth. An unpleasant way. But down here, among humans and wet roads and gardens, rain had a rhythm, a purpose, and Cas could appreciate the dim of light every so often. Welcomed it, even. 

And so, after lazily pulling himself into what might pass as an upright position if he were drunk, Castiel takes to the task of stretching. Actually an enjoyable activity, the pull of muscles, the push of energy through them. He rolls his neck once, twice, and a small yawn widens his mouth as he stands on swaying feet. As an afterthought, he returns the duvet around him, letting it hang around his shoulders as he pulls it together at chest-level, letting the rest drag behind him on the floor.

Padding down the hall, he becomes increasingly aware of the soft hum of the old TV Dean has moved into the living room. He thinks he hears a switch in the channels, a stuttering of words before a pause and a pick up of a different phrase. A turning of the corner reveals just Dean sitting on the couch, still in last night's pajamas. He glances up to the brunet, all barefooted and bed head, and a small smile turns up the corners of his lips. 

Cas' shoulders softened as he crossed the room and took his seat next to the hunter, his hunter, bringing his feet up beside him and curling up against the other man's side. Dean leaned into Cas, wrapping an arm around the fallen angel, humming appreciatively as Castiel dropped his head onto the other man’s shoulder. 

“Good morning, Dean.” 

“Mornin’, Cas.” 

In reality, it must’ve been about three in the afternoon. But time doesn’t really matter right now. Not when Sam sleeps more than fifteen hours a day, not when Cas sleeps and wakes anywhere but his own room - he prefers Dean’s bed, but there have been a few occurrences where he fell asleep in the library, and the living room. Time is but a number to the Winchesters and the former holy creature. It means oh, it’s noon, we should probably eat. It means four in the morning, Sam, time for bed. 

“Have you slept?” Cas asked quietly, attention on his hands that lay on Dean’s thigh. 

“A few hours,” That won’t do, Castiel thought, but what is he going to do? Force Dean to bed? He knows about the nightmares, about falling angels and hell’s gates. He knows Dean avoids sleep like the plague, because, well, it might as well be to him. Dean sometimes comes into his room to find the small brunet on his bed, numb with sleep but happy enough, and Cas wakes up to a warm body pressed against his, strong arms cradling him and hot breath on his ears, or neck, or in his hair. He will stir, and Dean will always pull him closer, tighter, still keen on protecting what he might lose. Often Castiel will turn over to a fully awake man, with red ringing his forest green irises, and he will stroke that tan face and whisper across the valley of sheets that he loves him, and he thanks him for watching over him, tells him what he fears and what he dreams about. And the man will say things like, “That won’t happen, I promise. I’ll never let that happen.”, “It’s my turn to be your angel, huh?”, and he will, only rarely, say that he loves Castiel too, that he wishes things for them that they can’t have, but he promises just the same. Cas knows, deep down, that they are hollow promises, but on the surface of his skin he soaks in the words, on the surface of his heart he accepts them warmly and welcomes them. 

“Are you cold, Dean?” Cas asked, staying relatively still but pawing at the brown duvet between their legs. Dean let out a long breath into Castiel’s dark hair. 

“No, baby.” He said plainly, reaching a hand up to smooth some of the straying locks away from Castiel’s face. Cas nodded, slowly, and glanced up at the television. 

They sit in silence for a few moments, and it could be five minutes or an hour, Dean stroking back Castiel’s hair, before the hunter breaks the silence. 

“Funny,” Dean started, a small laugh shaking him. “little angel in a blanket.” 

“Dean, I hardly find that funny.” Castiel complained beside him, but he knew Dean meant no offense by the endearment. 

“Oh, c’mon... it’s a little funny.” Dean murmured into Castiel’s hair and the little angel in the blanket sighed rather contently. It could be hours, hell, it could be a day, but it feels just perfect as they stay there, side by side, exchanging small bits of conversation over the brown duvet and watching television. And for a moment, just minutely, Castiel could hear Dean’s breathing deepen, the first sleep he’s had in days, before he slipped under himself, cradled by the hunter, his hunter.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this :)


End file.
